


Death by Flowers

by Avelera



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Aphrodisiacs, Body Worship, Bondage, Chubby Bilbo, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Bilbo, Female Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, First Time, Fuck Or Die, Hallucinations, Heterosexual Sex, Humor, Mirkwood, Misunderstandings, Power Exchange, Sex Pollen, Tenderness, Vaginal Sex, happy ending (in every sense)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-04-07 12:52:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4263924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/pseuds/Avelera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin encounters a particularly deadly flower while the Company travels through Mirkwood: one that releases a form of aphrodisiac pollen that may take days to burn out of his system, if it doesn't kill him first. To survive, he's going to need a partner.</p><p>Fortunately, he and Mistress Baggins have grown quite close.</p><p>Unfortunately, Thorin has decided not to pursue Bilbo any further until he can court her properly once the Mountain is reclaimed.</p><p>It would help if he had informed Bilbo of any of this, especially when an Elvish flower is doing its level best to kill him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [indigoire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigoire/gifts).



> Special thanks to Indigoire for re-sparking my interest in this fic, and extra special thanks to brglarbaggins, graceless-ace, and all the wonderful betas who helped clean up this fic! I could not have done it without you!
> 
> So ever since AUJ came out, I've wanted to write a sex pollen Bagginshield fic that takes place in Mirkwood (which is really just the perfect place for it), and around the middle of the year before Desolation of Smaug came out, I made a resolution to get better at writing smut. At the time I wasn't very familiar with writing m/m sex, so as a way to ease myself into it, I thought I’d combine the idea for this story with my interest at trying my hand at female Bilbo, and see if I could write her without losing track of the essence of the character, as seems to often happen in fics. 
> 
> Unfortunately back then I choked with nervousness before getting to the “action” (around the end of ch. 1) and abandoned the story. Nevertheless, I still really enjoyed what would become "Death by Flowers", as it’s a lot funnier than most my other pieces (to say the least), and I hated to leave it by the wayside. So what you see before you is me going back to a very old piece, cleaning it and polishing it to what is hopefully more representative of my current skill level. Since then I’ve gotten much more comfortable with writing smut and I’ve written plenty of M/M Bagginshield, so if M/F isn’t your cup of tea you may want to go check those out instead. Nevertheless, I do hope you enjoy, this was a hell of a lot of fun to write.

It was over a week since the Company had entered Mirkwood when they stumbled across the edge of a sun-drenched field emerging unaccountably from the middle of the tangle of the forest. By then, the beleaguered group had faced dense woods, impenetrable briars, a magic river, and, throughout it all, steadily dwindling supplies with no end of the road in sight. 

So when they came across the meadow, covered in waist-high grasses and golden flowers, with sunlight they had not seen in so many days drenching it in the warm light of late afternoon, Bilbo felt not a twinge of the delight she would normally feel at such a sight. No doubt the flowers were an illusion covering a pit of spikes, or they contained some form of deadly venom, Bilbo thought glumly. 

She really hated being right about such things. 

Further ahead, Thorin stopped at the edge of the tree line, no doubt having similar thoughts as her. His eyes narrowed and the Company filed in around him, eying the sight before them with more apprehension than had likely ever been directed at a field of cheerful, sun-drenched daffodils. 

“I don’t like the look of it, laddie,” Óin muttered in Thorin’s ear, as he drew alongside their leader. Which, with his deafness meant a stage whisper that carried to the entire Company, and they shifted nervously to hear their resident healer speak with such trepidation. Bilbo frowned, craning over the others to get a better look. The road did indeed pass straight through the middle of the field, partially obscured by tall grasses. 

“We have no choice,” Thorin announced grimly, and unsheathed Orcrist, its blade flashing in the sun as he brushed the overgrown flowers away from the path. “Burglar, stay close.”

“I’ll be just fine back here,” Bilbo replied crisply, expression cool when Thorin glanced back at her. Their eyes met, and Bilbo was quite proud of herself for not flinching as Thorin frowned, then shrugged without pressing the issue. 

“Nori, then,” Thorin said. “Keep an eye out.”

“Still sore at him about the river?” Bofur said, hanging back with Bilbo as the Company began their careful trek across the meadow, stepping out one by one into the sunlight with Thorin in the lead.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bilbo grumbled as they waited at the edge of the forest for their chance to follow the others. “That has nothing to do with it.”

“Right, o’course,” Bofur grinned, ducking ahead of her. “Wouldn’t want to get in the middle of the lover’s spat.”

Bilbo gaped, mouth open to correct him, but then closed it. She was hardly going to explain the truth to _Bofur_ of all people. It wasn’t a lover’s spat when they had been nothing of the sort. At least, not since Beorn’s, where she and Thorin had finally had a few rare moments of privacy. She had meant to ask him what this… this _thing_ that existed between them was, precisely. The kisses hastily stolen while running for their lives, the fingertips reaching out to brush hers at unexpected moments, or the shared pipe at the edge of the fire as they took their watch and spoke deep into the night about everything and nothing at all. 

She had meant to ask, only to have all such thoughts fly right out of her head when a calloused hand brushed her cheek and suddenly there were rough kisses against her lips. Well, she hadn’t been one to _protest_ such a pleasant turn, the question could wait after all. 

Except before she could ask, before she could do more than drag him into a darkened alcove, hands wandering and blood just beginning to heat, Thorin had torn himself away. No word, no explanation, just an unreadable look as he swept off, back into the light and the clamor of the Company without a backwards glance, leaving Bilbo cold, gaping, and more than slightly humiliated. 

There hadn’t been time to speak of the occasion after, as the Company departed for Mirkwood the very next day. Thorin had made it quite clear, as far as she was concerned, that a bit of high spirits after saving his life shouldn’t be construed as granting her any special place in his heart, what with the way he sent her first across the damned river. It seemed whatever had happened was in the past now, and she was being nothing more than a delusional spinster to expect anything more would come of it. Thorin seemed to be in tacit agreement, barely looking at her or speaking to her ever since. 

Fool that she was though, Bilbo still could not help sparing him glances from time to time, like now as they navigated the field. The path was well trod by the other thirteen dwarves by the time it got to her, the grasses pushed aside or lying flat over the stones, and ahead, Thorin had turned Orcrist to the undignified task of pushing the waist-high flowers out of the way. At the moment he was hacking at the underbrush, his gaze intent as he was no doubt on the lookout for unexpected surprises. Probably snakes or worse, knowing this dreadful place. 

That was when it happened. 

A dense patch of heath had grown over the path, obscuring it completely, and Thorin stopped, prodding it with the tip of Orcrist with a frown. Suddenly, there was a _pop!_

A cry went up from the Company as yellow dust exploded from the bush, hanging in a dense cloud around Thorin. Nori yelped from behind him, throwing himself backwards and managing to drag Dwalin and Dori out of harm’s way before the cloud could reach them, but Thorin was not so lucky. 

When the dust cleared, Thorin turned blinking back to them, blue eyes squinting out from beneath a thick layer of yellow pollen that coated him from head to toe, his eyelids crusted with the stuff. Thorin was a very important and, Bilbo could admit, quite handsome dwarf, but there was no salvaging any dignity when painted yellow as a baby chick.

Kíli lost it first, doubling over with a sharp guffaw and wiping tears from his eyes as he wheezed, “I’m sorry, it’s just… your face!” A relieved laugh went up from the Company that the disaster seemed to be no more than a bit of harmless flower dust, sweeping through even Thorin’s staunchest supporters with Dwalin snorting a laugh disguised as a cough against his fist, and Fíli’s face creasing into a grin. Even Bilbo couldn’t help hiding a laugh behind her hand. 

Except Óin wasn't laughing. Instead, the old dwarf was elbowing his way to the front, wrinkled face gone pale as he stopped a foot away from Thorin, turning to snap at Kíli, “This is no laughing matter, lad!” Then turning back, “Thorin, there’s no time for caution. We have to get to the other side o’ this accursed field and make camp for the night.”

“We haven’t covered enough ground,” Thorin retorted but stopped at Óin’s glare.

“Ye’ll thank me in an hour.” Óin turned back to the Company, shouting, “No one, absolutely _no one_ , is to touch him until we get this stuff off o’ him. Do I make myself clear? Bilbo, lass, do ye still have any o’ those handkerchiefs from Rivendell?”

“I—yes?” Bilbo said, startled, and took out an embroidered handkerchief that had been a gift from Lord Elrond from where she kept it in the breast pocket of her coat. She passed it forward and once it reached Óin he snatched it up and tossed it to Thorin, who caught it out of the air.

“Sorry to say ye’ll not be getting it back, lass. Thorin, wipe as much of that as ye can off your face this instant, anywhere it touches skin, and do _not_ breathe it in. We’ll need to clean yer clothes and armor too. I only hope we’re not too late.” 

Thorin’s eyes widened as he was visibly struck by the gravity of Óin’s words. He sheathed Orcrist, spat into the handkerchief-- Bilbo winced-- and began scrubbing at his face and hands. A thin sheen of yellow powder remained on Thorin’s face despite his attempt to clean it, but Óin did not allow the Company to linger a moment longer, herding them as quickly as possible to the other side of the meadow.

The dwarves pitched the camp with record speed, but Bilbo could not help but notice that it was different from their normal set up, with a tent placed in isolation as far from the road as they dared. It was set against a tree too, which was odd, and Bilbo watched the scene with some confusion as Thorin was hustled inside. At one point, Fíli came out from inside of it bearing an armful of canvas.

“What’s going on?” Bilbo said, as she trotted over to Fíli's side.

“Thorin’s been poisoned,” Fíli answered, and Bilbo’s heart shot to her throat. “Got his armor and clothes wrapped in here, Óin says that the pollen should die off enough during the night, but we should get these things well out of the way until then and wash them in the morning.”

Bilbo turned and looked at the tent. “So he's stuck in there all night?”

Fíli nodded. “It's a quarantine, so yes. Apparently it’s terrible stuff. He’ll live, but it may not be very pleasant before it gets out of his system. I wouldn’t go over there if I were you.”

The Baggins side certainly took this under advisement, but the Took was moving the moment Fíli turned his back. She even considered putting her ring on to creep closer, but it proved unnecessary as she was able to gain some cover behind a bit of scrub. Óin and Balin’s voices were a low hum from within the tent.

“…About twenty more minutes," Óin said.

"And then?" came Balin’s voice. They had brought a lantern inside against the coming night, and Bilbo could see their outlines against the side of the tent. Thorin was he was lying on the ground, his back to the tree that had been used as a prop for the tent while two others stood before him. Bilbo inched forward as close as she dared, listening.

"It varies," Óin said cautiously. "If we get a volunteer it could be as little as a few hours."

"And if we don't?" Thorin rumbled.

"Three days is the most I've heard. If ye survive."

“ _Survive_?" Balin exclaimed.

Óin sighed. "It builds up over time, ye see? Without treatment ye could tear yerself apart, rip yer own muscles right off the bone."

There was a sharp intake of breath from Thorin, but his voice remained steady. "Then I have no choice. We'll camp here and wait it out." Three more days gone before Durin's Day. Three more days of supplies. He could not be happy about that, Bilbo thought, gnawing on her lower lip. It must have been truly serious for Thorin to even consider waiting that long.

"Are ye crazy? That's all ye're saying, ye'll wait it out? Ye’ll have no trouble getting a volunteer, lad!”

“I can just as easily… _take care_ of myself,” Thorin said, his voice darkening with something like… embarrassment? Bilbo frowned, feeling she was missing something.

“It wouldn’t do ye any good. Ye’ll chafe yerself raw and have nothing to show for it. It’s not just about release, it’s about… smell, touch, taste! Yer body will know the difference, we need to find you a partner.”

“He’ll ride it out alone or we’ll hold a very selective lottery. Whoever it is will probably want to leave afterwards though,” Balin said.

“And take us back down to thirteen? Bad luck, that is,” Óin said.

“What choice would there be?” Thorin said, and Bilbo could hear the first edges of anger in his voice. “I am promised to no one, and if I were, I still would not… It doesn’t matter. I will outlast this.”

“Lad, it could _kill_ you.”

“It will not. I won’t allow it.”

Óin made a wordless noise of frustration and threw open the flap of the tent, storming away. Bilbo was just able to duck behind the shrubs as he went by, and glanced back and forth to the tent before darting after him, catching up just as he drew close to the fire of the main camp the others had set up.

“Óin, what is going on? What’s wrong with Thorin?” Bilbo said as she drew alongside.

Óin paused and turned to her, a speculative look in his eyes. Sometimes Bilbo wondered how much Óin really needed the ear trumpet, or whether it just served as a useful excuse to tune certain people out. After all, she had kept her voice low, and Óin had still stopped immediately, as if he knew she was there.

“Stubbornness, I’d say,” Óin said.

“Is it… is Thorin really at risk of dying?” she said apprehensively.

“So ye were listening to that?” Óin said. “Might have guessed as much, ye always were a quiet one. Aye, lass, it doesn’t look good. The blasted stuff should be entering his blood in a wee bit and then it’s a long ride between then and when it will pass its course. The best we can do until then is give him a bit o’ food and make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”

“Hurt himself?” Bilbo squeaked.

“It be a dangerous drug in that quantity, ye see. Elves use it sometimes to spike their wine, only a pinch mind you. I've never seen so much in one place before, 'twould fetch us a fortune if it wasn't so dangerous to transport,” Óin said, shaking his head. “There’s no tellin' how much he inhaled, three days is only a guess.”

“But what does it _do_?” Bilbo said. “You make it sound like he’s going to have seizures!”

“Aye, in a manner of speaking,” Óin said, and that speculative look was back in his eye. “The two of ye have grown quite close lately, haven’t ye lass?”

“We may have, not that it would be any of your business. And it’s Bilbo, not lass,” Bilbo said testily. “I fail to see what that has to do with it.”

“Ach, well, Thorin is being stubborn as ever, and refuses to take a nurse from the Company. I may ask to recruit ye if it looks like he’s in real danger,” Óin said innocently.

“Óin,” Bilbo said, glaring, “What are you hiding?”

A sly grin came over Óin’s face…and then fell. He sighed and looked down, shaking his head. “He’d kill me if I told ye. I’d say ye should ask him yerself but ye’d have to be careful if ye do, lass. It’s powerful, powerful stuff. We’ve got him tied up in there and it’ll be enough to hold him, but he may not be himself.”

“You think he’d hurt me?” Bilbo said, eyebrows rising and she looked to the tent, questions swirling in her mind as to what exactly could be so potent that it could pose a threat to Thorin Oakenshield, of all people. 

“You? Never. Leastways, not under his own power. But I’d be doing ye wrong to not say it’s a possibility for anyone who goes in there right now,” Óin said, and looked to the campfire and the stew over the fire. “I should be going.”

Bilbo watched Óin go without protest, her mind occupied by the tent and Thorin within. Balin came and went. The sky darkened. Bilbo had just turned to join Óin and the others when she heard the first gasp.

* * *

Thorin lay on his back, with his hands trussed above his head with sturdy ropes, bound to the bottom of the tree that the tent was set against. The bindings had been lashed several times around his wrists, secured with multiple knots, and while they’d done their best to pad the ropes with spare rags, Óin had warned that once the effects hit, the touch of any kind of cloth against his skin could well become unbearable. Thorin was stripped entirely, given a blanket for modesty and warmth that he could easily kick off, and then left to the privacy of the tent. Óin and Balin had done their best under the circumstances to leave him some dignity, but in the end Thorin preferred to ride it out in as much solitude as a small camp could muster without going too far from the road.

Now, he lay there in silence, staring up at the canvas roof of the tent while he waited for whatever witchcraft the herb would inflict on him. Óin had described some of the effects, but said that without knowing how much he’d actually consumed in his first startled moments of coughing and sputtering, there was no telling how long it would last, or how powerful it would be. Thorin had eaten his share of the rations for the night before they tied him, keeping his expression neutral as they did so and trying not to let the embarrassment of the situation creep overmuch into his mind. His nakedness was not the issue, after all the quest did not allow for much privacy, and he’d bathed in front of his family and companions before. The ropes, on the other hand, brought back uncomfortable memories of Goblin Town, and the helplessness of being so vulnerable to potential enemies sent a wave of anxiety crawling up his spine. The others would guard the tent, of that he was sure, but even then he must worry about losing his dignity in other ways by crying out or calling for their aid when he was in the deepest throes of the drug. He resolved to set his teeth against it and remain silent. He dared not dwell on the possibility that he may be unable to.

For now, Thorin stared at the ceiling of the tent and felt vaguely…bored? The ground was cool beneath the bedroll and the chill worked its way up through the pallet. He felt ridiculous and exposed, even with the cover of the tent, and thought he may as well shout for Óin to come and unbind him, because this dreaded herb was not having nearly the effect that had been advertised. Thorin could still taste it on his tongue, an herbal scent like tea leaves or flowers, unpalatable to the tongue but not wholly unpleasant. It was only the consistency that had been irritating, fine as flour and resisting his every attempt to expel it from his mouth. Perhaps he had managed to spit it all out, perhaps not, Óin had said it would only take a pinch to lay any dwarf low.

Still Thorin felt nothing, at most a trifle warmer. Night fell before he began to wonder if the heat of the fire had somehow reached him on the other side of the camp. Had his hands been free he would have felt at his forehead, for his face had taken on the unpleasant glow like that of standing too close to a forge.

Then, without warning, a _thrum_ passed through him, striking his body like a plucked harp string.

Fire pooled in Thorin's belly and his hips ground unconsciously into the pallet beneath him to try to relieve the twinge that arose lower still. His toes scraped the ground as they curled and he threw his head back, looking through fogging vision at the canvas above, fading to dark gray with the fall of night, and sucked in a breath through his teeth. Every twitch was magnified tenfold and the whisper of his own breath echoed in his ears. Thorin blinked, as he did so in the flash of darkness between, he felt the brush of lips against his mouth, ghosting against his throat and chest. Thorin bit back a soft sound which instead came out instead as a humiliating mewl, as the blanket that covered his nakedness shifted and brushed against his inner thigh.

His eyes snapped open, and Thorin pulled himself up on the ropes and found they would not give. Instinctively he opened his mouth to cry out, but caught the words in his throat, strangling them, at the thought of the aid that would come to him if he spoke. His family, his companions, none of whom he wished to see him in so compromising a position, not even his cousin Óin, who surely knew already. Or worse, Bilbo…

A gasp tore from his throat at the thought of the burglar and it was like she was there before him, honey curls plastered to her forehead, sweat slicking her neck and ample breasts as she sat atop him. This time he could not hold back the groan as he gritted his teeth against the image and his cock stirred, half hard already at the thought, the ghostly image of her rounded thighs clenching around his hips playing in his mind real as life, the arch of her back as she rode him.

 _His hands_ , he needed his hands free to drive the images away. Not the first time he had needed to do so at the thought of her, but always he was quick, silent, the results unsatisfying but necessary when they were constantly on the road. He needed a clear head, not one that was tangled up in thoughts of their burglar. It had only grown worse at Beorn’s, when the tiny brushes of hands and long looks had given way to fumbled kisses in darkened corners, sucking down her breath and claiming her mouth, hand buried in her thick curls. She was not young by the standards of her people, but neither was he, and she did not giggle like a maiden. Instead, she had gasped against his mouth, her cheeks ruddy but her gaze intent, searching for some meaning behind this, some conclusion. A question that only came with experience. But she did not ask, perhaps she had not worked up the courage to do so, but then neither had he. The Mountain waited, and all the gems and treasures within that he might gift her when he asked for her hand, if the claiming of those did not kill them first.But she was worth the wait, and he reminded himself that he must be patient as he pulled himself regretfully away.

He had thought about staying, of course, allowing their touches to go further. Certainly he had responsibilities, but he was still a being of flesh and blood. Though Bilbo shrouded her figure in waistcoats and trousers, his eyes had often lingered on the swell of her breasts beneath her tattered shirt, the flick of her tongue over the stem of her pipe when they had sat together by the fire, blowing smoke rings and reclining in comfortable silence while the rest of the Company laughed and joked, quiet moments where no words were needed. More often than not he had to force himself back to his cold bedroll, or excuse himself to the woods where he sought to banish as quickly as possible the stirrings of lust that came from the warm press of her body against his.

Thorin's fingers tore at the bonds as those memories rose, and he twisted within his shackles, but the knot was clever and he snarled as his fingernails scrabbled uselessly at the thick rope. His hips moved unbidden as he twisted, his now erect cock pressing against the soft fabric of the blanket and he fell back with a strangled gasp. In his mind’s eye the fabric was soft fingers brushing delicately over his thigh, balls, to the tip of his cock and he turned his head into the pillow to try to stifle his groan, the flash of her eyes as she lowered herself further, that silver tongue drawing a long stripe from base to tip…

He writhed on the end of the rope and somehow in his twisting his knuckles scraped against the hard bark of the tree that anchored his bindings and the pain sent a rush of clarity through him like being doused with cold water. At the edges too, the pain turned to curling, hot pleasure; but it was enough for now that he could think. Terror washed through him at the suddenness of it, the way the drug burned in his veins and curled his fingers and toes, stealing his mind and replacing every stimulus with succubus visions.

Three days, maybe more. Three days, and he was nearly driven mad by three minutes. Thorin's breath came in harsh, panting gasps that were as much from fear as lust. If he could just turn around he might grind against the bedroll, gain some friction. He wondered if even that would be unnecessary, the merest breath on his skin was like the touch of fire and all he could think of was _more_. He was rock hard, painfully so, his erection hot against his leg and he squirmed, seeking some relief, knowing that whatever clarity banging his knuckles had granted was drowning in the fresh wave. He should cry for help, knew he should, but the memory returned of Óin’s words and his own arrogant answer: that he could outlast this, that he would endure as dwarves were meant to endure.

But enduring was for pain. Wounds, cuts, and blows, those he could resist, those he had been trained to ignore since his earliest days. The fire that crackled along his skin, consuming his every breath and thought, was entirely different, pleasure in its most carnal form. He closed his eyes and saw Bilbo removing her jacket, then the waistcoat, fingers trailing down, revealing herself as she drew the shirt over her head…

…He clung to these fantasies, for even as they plagued him at least they were his own, safe and familiar. Thorin's head tossed back, his lips pressed tight and even then not enough to stop a whimper as his feet scrabbled against the ground and his hips bucked and the visions consumed him, riding the drug that raced through his veins like fire.

* * *

The first groan was so quiet Bilbo thought at first that she must have imagined it. But then the company had shifted, drawing the circle of conversation inward around the fire, and louder, and she knew it was not only her who had heard.

“Shouldn’t we do something for him? For Thorin?” she murmured as quietly as could still be heard to Óin, who shook his head.

“Naught we can do, lass. I’d gag him if I thought it would help. He’d prefer it, but I cannot risk cutting off his breath. Think of the noise as a good thing. At least we know he’s alive, and we’ll know if he injures himself.”

“But perhaps someone should watch him? What if something happens?”

“He’ll not thank ye for that, lass, nor any of us. Very proud he is, our king-to-be, we’re best off pretending none of this is happening.”

“A bit difficult,” Bilbo said and winced as a strangled moan came from the direction of the tent, this one louder than the previous ones and tinged with something familiar. Something that brought a flush to her cheeks that had nothing to do with their nearness to the fire and when she turned back, Óin was watching her.

“If ye must, ye can go check on him if you like, but it be on yer head. Mayhap ye can help him, but I don’t want ye getting into anything ye aren’t ready for. He’s tied up as it is, but…”

“And what is it exactly that I should be so worried about, Óin? What is everyone not telling me?” Bilbo snapped. Óin frowned, looked up as if making a quick calculation, shrugged, and whispered the answer in her ear.

Bilbo turned _scarlet_.

“He…?”

“Aye.”

“For _three days_?”

“If we’re lucky. Could be longer, if he survives.”

“ _Survives?!_ ” Bilbo was standing before she realized, towering above Óin insomuch as she could. She glared down at him and then to the tent. “Save me from the stubbornness of dwarves,” she muttered and marched towards the tent.

“Lass, I wouldn’t…” Óin called after her, rather unconvincingly.

“I didn’t save that stubborn dwarf’s life from orcs to lose him to a _flower_ ,” Bilbo snapped over her shoulder, and then ducked into the tent.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank all the lovely betas who took the time to look over this piece and transform the prose into something with a modicum of sense. My thanks especially to yaaurens and tigermind108, who actually let me know how to credit them in the notes! 
> 
> Worth mentioning that the premise of this story was inspired by "The Curse of a Hundred Loves", a Supernatural fic by Cymbalism, credit where it is due. 
> 
> This chapter is basically 7k of smut, guys, there's not much else to say. While consent is a major aspect of this fic, in a positive manner I hope, sex pollen is involved and that could be construed as dubcon, just as a warning. Thank you for reading this far, I hope you enjoy!

It almost did not matter that Thorin had no use of his hands. He was tormented enough by the visions that the drug conjured from his blood, the feel of the ropes at his wrists and the rough fabric of the pallet against his back. The blanket fell aside as he ground himself down and hallucinations painted themselves behind his closed eyelids. 

… _Of the sweat that trickled between Bilbo’s breasts, the pale flesh shading to red from the friction of their lovemaking. He could feel them, large enough to overspill his hand, the rosy nipples pinched between his fingers. Everything about her was soft, and round, and beautiful_ _as she pressed her hands to his shoulders, holding him down as she took her pleasure of him, rubbing against him as she rode his cock, her lips red from biting kisses that held back his cries and he wanted nothing more than to touch her, massage her breasts or lave her clit with his tongue to draw every ounce of pleasure from her body, from the curling of her toes to the pointed tips of her ears..._

The sound of the tent flapping brought him to his senses, and Thorin drifted back to consciousness, blinking to clear his sight of the dreams where he had lost himself. There was someone standing at the entrance to his tent, and it struck him then that he did not know if there were any outward signs of his imagining. Had he been silent, or was every moan torn from his chest echoing across the camp for all to hear…? A flush of an entirely different sort scorched his skin.

“Thorin?” A high, tremulous voice. 

Bilbo.

Thorin bucked against the ropes, trying to drag them out at the base, writhing to get as _far away_ as possible. “What are you doing here?” he hissed. 

The visions were there and _he could not stop them_. He wanted her. He wanted her to close the distance between them, to strip off her clothing and spread herself above him. To have her take him deep with her mouth or her cunt or her hands… he would take any part of her if only to have the heat of his erection engulfed, stroked and suckled until his vision whited out and he…

_No._

No, this was different. This was real, and he could not do that to her. He groaned, flinching away as she took another step forward. His blood burned, he could barely speak for how hard he was, his erection damp at the tip. He would give all the gold in Erebor only to touch himself, to find completion, to do _something_ other than lay there in helpless want while his skin thrummed and his body pulsed.

“I came to see if you were all right. The others…” Bilbo said.

“Have they heard?” Thorin said sharply, humiliation chasing away the burn in his veins just long enough to replace it with dread.

Bilbo shook her head. “They’ve all gathered around the fire, talking amongst themselves, I think, or sleeping. I might not have heard you if I didn’t come to see how you were doing.”

Thorin relaxed, which was hardly any benefit at all, as another pulse began at his groin, searing him until he felt his own blood beating in his throat. He was naked, knuckles white as he gripped the ropes, legs bent and thigh rubbing wantonly against the side of his cock, seeking even the slightest friction, the muscles of his stomach spasming with each wave. Utterly exposed before her eyes. He had to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep from whimpering at the thought, though whether from humiliation or raw arousal he was too far gone to say.

“Get out,” Thorin said in a strangled whisper. If she did not leave, he would start to beg and he did not want this, to be so broken before her. He wanted to remain strong in her eyes, unaffected, a leader. Not whimpering, thrusting helplessly against himself as he cried out for any kind of release.

“Thorin, you’re being…”

“I will manage. _Get out_ ,” Thorin grated. He was flushed, his face and skin burning as another wave passed through him, curling his toes, stronger than the last. Before he’d been able to at least hold on to his _own_ fantasies, but now his vision whited entirely. The world was warping around him, every surface and corner promising release, and he pushed back the impulse ruthlessly. He would not sink that low. Desire was one thing, he had known desire, he had burned with it, but he would not give in to bestial need. Three days, Durin help him, three _days_. It was not even the first three hours and he thought he would die. He was panting, each word an effort of will that stole the resistance from him, lathered in sweat that made the touch of his thigh against his cock slick, maddeningly so as it stole what friction he’d had. “ _Please_ ,” he whimpered, “ _leave me_.”

“Why?” Bilbo said, taking another step forward and he groaned in frustration, the sound wracking him and echoing in his ears, feeling utterly wrecked and ruined, dignity a long forgotten joke. “Thorin, Óin told me what was happening.”

Óin? Why had he…how dare he… Thorin could not bear it, he could not bear the heat of his own blush and humiliation that twisted in his belly, and the shot of arousal it put through him as he twisted and held back another thrust. The sight of her was driving him mad, his own visions lying over the reality. He saw her naked, lips parted, pushing him down as her teeth nipped at his throat and she… 

“ _Shut up_ ,” Thorin gasped, and hated himself for it but he could barely breathe much less speak. “ _Go._ ”

Bilbo’s chin snapped up as she recoiled, shock and steely anger warring within her gaze as she looked down at him. He cringed beneath that look, something stirring like a fire deep within his gut to be pinned thus. Maybe she was furious, or hurt. She might leave, or worse, she might stay. If she left, he was there alone with his aching erection and the cold air. Or she might come to him and kiss the air out of his lungs, and fist her clever fingers through his hair and tilt his head back as she licked and bit her way down his throat, the tip of her tongue brushing his nipples, his skin shivering beneath her as her lips skipped lower to wrap around his cock.

“All right,” Bilbo said, in a voice that seemed far too calm and reasonable given the situation and his own ravings. “I will if that’s what you want, and this is not some dwarvish stubbornness on your part. As I said, Óin told me what’s going on and quite frankly it’s ridiculous, but not as ridiculous as slowing the quest for days when we’re low on food for want of… of a little modesty.” This time she blushed, as if the mere mention of modesty or its lack was more improper to her than the fact there was a naked and bound dwarf before her.

He could not argue with her, and what was worse it had nothing to do with the drug. Even sober he would see the wisdom of her proposal, and were it any other dwarf of the Company and their situation the same, he might even insist if it meant the success of their quest.

But he couldn’t. Wave after wave assaulted his senses yet he clung to one idea like a piece of driftwood in the midst of the flood: he would not go to bed with her now for want of a bit of self control. She deserved better, she deserved the king he seemed to be in her eyes, and when the quest was over he would court Mistress Baggins as was proper, and he would not spoil that courtship because of some _damned_  Elvish weed in the middle of a _damned_  Elvish forest.

The problem was actually opening his mouth to tell her this, because right now he feared if he unclenched his teeth what would follow would be an embarrassing display of his weakness and a stream of nonsensical pleas. He was holding on by his fingernails to even manage a glare that he hoped would serve as his answer.

“Very well, no need to snarl so,” Bilbo said, straightening. “Is there anything I can get you before I go? I’d hate to think of you catching a chill in addition to all this nonsense.”

Thorin shook his head vehemently, closing his eyes to the sight of her. Another second more and he might beg. Then he felt the blanket as it fell over him, the coarse wool scraping across his skin and he groaned, deep and low in his throat at the sudden friction. Sweat prickled anew on his forehead, and then there were cool fingers pressed to his face.

“Thorin, you’re burning up!” Bilbo exclaimed, pressing the front and then the back of her hand to his forehead. “This is absurd! Why won’t you let me help you?” No sooner had she said it than she blushed to the roots of her curly hair, but her expression remained fierce.

Thorin stared at her, a whimper building at the back of his throat as he tried to recoil and could not for the ropes binding him. The tendrils of his own mind, his very sense of self, were slipping one by one. She was so close he could smell her, the faint aroma of her pipeweed and the wool of her coat, and he’d never before smelled anything so mouthwatering. All his self control brought to bear, and he still could not get this stubborn hobbit to cease tormenting him unless he gave her some answer.

Thorin dared untighten his jaw, and managed to hiss out. “Not now. After…Erebor,” he managed, before a wave of lust hit him so hard it left him dizzy, and his hips thrust without his direction, helplessly forward.

“After Erebor?” Bilbo echoed. Her brow drew together in puzzlement for a moment, then her eyes widened, this time with outrage. “Is _that_ what this is about? And at Beorn’s when you were such an awful tease? You were waiting until we get the damned _mountain_ back first?”

He certainly would not call it _teasing_ , rather that he had almost given in, and had only with the greatest effort restrained himself. But all eloquence had fled, and Thorin only managed a short, jerky nod which was immediately followed by Bilbo’s exasperated huff.

“Thorin, I understand that you’re trying to keep distractions at bay, but this is rather serious. I promise one little t-tumble,” she stuttered over the word, then seemed furious at herself for having done so, “is not going to change whether or not we get your home back, though waiting days for this infection to pass may.”

He shook his head again, and in the course of her tirade had managed to grind his knuckles against the tree, granting himself enough pain to clear the haze, enough to spit out, “This isn’t about the Mountain, you insufferable hobbit! _You_ deserve better. You deserve a king- _ngh_!”

A new surge washed over him, this one tinged with a new pain as his limbs protested his writhing. 

_Rip yer own muscles right off the bone_ , Óin had said. He would have to remain still, somehow, and the prospect was as daunting and impossible as his hopes of remaining silent with the lust pounding in his veins like a war drum.

When Thorin opened his eyes he hoped only that Bilbo would have taken the hint, and herself from his presence, but of course the dratted hobbit had done nothing of the sort. Instead her expression had changed, become wondering as she looked down on him, all her anger fled. 

“You think I deserve a king?” Bilbo echoed. Thorin managed another nod and her eyes widened further, then softened. “You silly old dwarf, why in the world would a spinster like me need anything so grand?"

He had no answer for this, at least nothing that he could dredge up in his current state. Only that it seemed obvious to him that one such as her would have little need of a vagabond. What was he in the days before the quest but a wandering smith who happened to lead a scattered and ruined people, and badly for the most part? One who could not muster more than twelve other dwarves, including his own kin, to regain their lost home?

But Bilbo had settled back onto her knees and was removing her ruined red velvet coat, untying her scarf. The remaining buttons of her green vest were half undone before Thorin managed to choke out, “What are you doing?”

Bilbo gave him a sidelong look. “I’m not going to force myself on you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just answer me this: when this is all over, and you are king and you’ve undergone whatever ridiculous courting ritual your pride requires before you can marry a middle-aged hobbit from the Shire, _then_ will you still wish to lie with me? Or is all this just some obscure matter of honor?”

It was so preposterous a question that it momentarily cut through the fog of the drug. “How could I not?” Thorin said, incredulous.

Bilbo flushed, and it would have been a pretty sight if his mind was not taking every cue to far less poetic places. She seemed more embarrassed by the thought he would want her than his own lustful writhing. “Then may we not simply skip over all of that, for now? I promise I’ll not count it against…whatever it is you have planned… and to be sure, these are the absolute worst of circumstances. But, that is to say, I’ve been thinking of you often, quite fondly in fact, and even perhaps imagining we might be more… at night. When I’m alone, and I thought you might have felt the same, but… Hang it all, Thorin! I haven’t known _what_ to think ever since Beorn’s, except that somehow I had scared you off!”

Thorin barely heard the end of the sentence, ludicrous as it was. At her words, at the _image_ they left in his mind, Thorin’s vision whited out. He saw Bilbo writhing quietly within her bedroll just a few feet away, eyelashes fluttering shut, whispering his name as she touched herself, the tips of her fingers slick with her desire… he must have made a sound, though whether whimper or curse, he was too far gone to recall.

When he could open his eyes again Bilbo looked stunned, if gratified by his reaction. Her vest was half undone, the once-white shirt beneath it loose around her curves. But she had stopped there and now gave him a measured look. “Well, in that case…Thorin, I care much less for propriety than I do for getting us through this and all of us back on the damned road. And I… care for you, very much, and certainly would see this as nothing less than a privilege, if you are so inclined. Tell me no and I will leave, and no further questions, but know I will be terribly worried about you until this is over.”

The word was on the tip of his tongue, and would have spilled over in one of the last flashes of sanity left to him, until he caught her expression. Already his little hobbit looked miserable at the prospect, and he realized through the haze how it must have looked to her, not knowing his intentions for a formal courtship. For him to steal kisses in the dark and then wrench himself away as he had, back into the light and the presence of the Company. At night, setting his bedroll beside her as if it were a personal test of his self-control to be so close and not take her in his arms.

“Yes,” Thorin said. Lust and shame twisted with equal strength within him. But Bilbo looked up, startled, and then relief swept her features, taking with it all traces of that misery and confusion, and the shame died within him. “Yes, damn you! And we _will_ wed, I swear it, I will make it…” a whimper cut off his words but he forced himself on, “… I will make it right.”

Bilbo chuckled, and it was airy with relief as she finished off the last of the buttons on her vest. “And who says I will accept?” she said. She shrugged the vest off, the thin fabric of her tunic momentarily pressed beneath the curve of her breasts. “Perhaps this is all I want: a bit of fun during my adventure and some saucy memories to keep me warm once I’m home. After all, it seems a terrible amount of responsibility, being a queen.”

It had never occurred to him that she may say no, and Thorin gaped, unable to process the thought when what clarity he had gained was being edged out by pleasure. But Bilbo took pity on him and leaned in, pressing a kiss to his sweat-slicked forehead. “Don’t take everything so seriously, Thorin. There are better times to discuss it than when an elvish flower is trying to kill you.”

With that she tugged her shirt over her head, and Thorin was gifted with a sight he had only dreamed, ever since he had first taken notice of the way her body fit perfectly against his, high above on the Carrock.

Small could really only be applied to Bilbo’s height, her other proportions were decidedly not, just as they were decidedly perfect. Round, generous breasts brushed the top of the curve of her belly. Whether from the cold or her already budding arousal, her nipples were peaked, waiting for the brush of his hand or stroke of his tongue. Thorin jolted at the sight, swallowing against a mouth gone dry. She still wore her trousers, and following the curve of her body hungrily with his eyes he saw what the length of her coat usually concealed: the curve of her arse and the swell of her thighs curled as they were under her as she knelt sent a pulse directly to his cock. His heart was thundering in his chest, and it was a reaction all of his own with little help from the drug.

Bilbo looked down at herself and shrugged. “I know I'm not much, but…”

“ _Please_ ,” Thorin said with a strangled gasp. If he’d been hard before, he was straining now.

Bilbo’s eyebrows rose, her expression becoming at once more confident and with that a bit coy. “Please what?” she said, running the tips of her fingers over his shoulder, sending a delightful shiver through Thorin’s frame. “You can still send me off, you know, though I’d thank you not to go sharing what you’ve seen here with the others.”

“Take me. Please,” Thorin said, too far gone for anything more gentle and Bilbo looked up, startled, but her pupils dilated wide. “They are perfect, you are perfect, only _please_ …”

Thankfully, Bilbo did not waste any more time, which was just as well, because speech was swiftly leaving him again, this time to more than his own rough imaginings. She removed her trousers and the knickers beneath, revealing the curling hair of her sex and the pale, dimpled flesh of her thighs. Before he could lose himself in the sight of it, in the desire to taste her, she tossed aside the blanket and straddled him, grinding her backside against his flushed cock. Thorin arched and a ragged, broken gasp hissed between his clenched teeth, his eyelids fluttering. He moaned deeper when Bilbo leaned down to kiss him, pressing her soft lips next to his throat, then back up the curve of his jaw to nuzzle at his beard before she captured his lips again, deep and hungrily. And just as suddenly he was devouring her back, moaning at the back of his throat as he thrust helplessly against the cleft of her arse, leaving slick trails of pre-come.

“Let me,” she gasped into his mouth, her hands wandering up to take hold of the ropes that bound him to the tree.

“No!” Thorin gasped, alarm pulling him free just in time for Bilbo to draw her hands back.

“Doesn’t quite seem fair to you,” Bilbo frowned, tracing Thorin's fingers even as they clenched to fists.

How to explain to her through the fog? He did not know what this drug would do to him, now that he finally had her with him. Bad enough to take her thus, a base tumble without any ceremony or honor, but at least bound he could not harm her. “Later,” he said, punctuating his words with another roll of his hips that sent her bouncing, her breasts rising and falling with the motion.

She huffed. “Oh fine, if you insist." She bent forward to cover his body with hers, nipples tracing over his chest as she closed her mouth over his, pulling away after just enough to say, “Next time, then. I do so love your hands.” 

Thorin would have asked what she meant, seeing nothing of particular note in them when they were bound and useless, unable to give her the pleasure he so desperately wanted to. His fingers curled and uncurled at the thought. But she shifted then, deliberately pressing against his cock, and Thorin's eyes rolled back as he released a shuddering gasp. 

“Now,” Bilbo said,“how shall we do this? Seems rather cruel to keep you waiting, and sooner that's done with, the sooner we can move on, hmm?” The last she said with some reluctance, and she inched back rising to her knees and placing the weeping head of Thorin’s cock at her entrance. Thorin gave a low, wrenching cry as soft pink fingers wrapped around his painfully engorged length, and the damp tip traced her folds. Another shudder ran through him and he shook his head, violently in denial so that Bilbo started, pulling off and he whined at the loss, yet forced himself to speak. 

“Let me taste you,” Thorin said, words slurring with the effort it took to speak them, and not simply allow her to slide home. No, nonono, he would have this, even if it wrenched him apart, he would give her all that had not been robbed by this wretched poison, as he would have were it indeed their wedding night. “First, your pleasure,” he ground out. “I d-don’t want to h-hurt you.”

Bilbo gave him a curious look, her lips twisted in a wry smile. “My dear, I can assure you, I may not be a warrior, or a burglar, but I am also most certainly not a virgin. You’re not going to hurt me, and if you cannot tell,” she rubbed against him and his breath hissed out as he felt the warm, and already slick heat of her entrance brush his cock, “I’m already wet enough. You’re not an unattractive sight, all trussed up like this. It would be very hard to resist, even if I didn’t already want you.” 

Thorin would have sworn if he had the breath but it left him in a gasp, and still he shook his head again. “Please,” he hissed, letting the plea speak through his eyes. Let him have this, if only to assuage his conscience, to be certain that no matter what happened next she would have her pleasure. In the stew that was his brain under the heat of the drug, it became a single fixed idea, an anchor grounding him to sanity, and he could not let that go.

“… All right, if you insist,” Bilbo said, a little less certain, but that may have been caused by her eying the tree he was bound to, and he saw those shrewd eyes narrow. “I’m going to have to brace myself. I’ll keep a hold of your hands, squeeze twice quickly if anything feels wrong, hmm? Otherwise, oh, I don’t know, say ‘mountain’, and I will too if aught goes wrong.”

“Yes, now _please_ ,” Thorin said, a distant part of him relieved that she had the presence of mind that he did not, but all of that was buried in unbearable lust as she grasped his hands, and just before hefting herself up he saw her blush a little, quite prettily, then square herself. 

The taste, oh Mahal, _the taste_. As soon as she was within reach, balanced on her knees and using his hands and the tree as an anchor to keep herself steady, lovely round thighs to either side of his head, Thorin rose to meet her. Her folds were already hot and slick, tasting of musk and bitterness and the scent of _her_ that was more potent than any drug. He could not help panting against her as he nuzzled at her curls, so gentle as to be barely there. At first he tasted her with only the tip of his tongue, so she shivered above him and her fingers tightened around his. It was a delicious torture of its own, letting the drug have what it wanted and yet holding back. The scent of her seemed to assuage it. Perhaps it was as Óin said, and it was the coupling, the partner, that calmed its fires and not the simple release it called for. Whatever it was, he lost himself in her as he had only dreamed before, as he planned in the dark of night for a wedding celebration that seemed many months away. Above him she shifted, grinding lower in silent urging he pressed back, applying more of his tongue, the flat and tip to trace and caress, moaning his pleasure against her body as his cock pulsed with every frantic beat of his heart. 

“Oh, Thorin, more there, that’s it. _Oh_...” Bilbo whimpered above him, shifting her hips to guide him around her clit. He shook his head to make her gasp and grind harder against his tongue. She was wet now, soaking with his saliva and her own desire, slick beneath his tongue and his ruined brain wandered to how she would feel clenching around him, shivering as she did now, giving little whimpers and cries muffled against the crook of her arm. Her legs were shaking, barely able to hold her upright as he licked and suckled. Each sound was like lightning through his veins, pulsing in his belly, his loins, so that his toes curled in the rough blanket beneath him. He was so hot, so hard that if not for the bonds and the delirium of Bilbo’s taste he would not be able to hold back from taking himself in hand, tugging himself to completion in what would likely be seconds. Yet somehow the very act soothed that ache, even as it ignited him, and he did not want it to end when the first shuddering pulse wracked her, and Bilbo muffled her scream as a squeak. 

"Thorin _, Thorin,_ oh _,_ I-I’m close, don’t stop _, aah…."_ She whispered a stream of broken pleas and whispers no more sensible than his own thoughts as he inhaled the scent of her, reveling in her, tasting her as she came, shuddering through wave after wave, clutching his fingers so tight they ached as her muscles seized. 

She finally jolted away, moving off of him to crouch shuddering and shivering over his belly, clutching at her own shoulders, red-tipped nipples sticking out from above her crossed arms. “Oh, oooh goodness, oh my goodness…"

Bilbo curled in on herself as more shivers wracked her, her eyes closed while Thorin panted beneath her. She was desperately out of reach of his cock, but how could he mind when she was so lovely, flushed and apple-cheeked from her pleasure, curls clinging to her forehead? A droplet of sweat trickled between her breasts, vanishing in the deep valley between them and he could not help but stare, to feel that longing ache in his heart as he looked at her and wanted nothing more than to caress her smooth cheeks, to gather her into his arms and hold her until the shuddering died down. 

But that damn flower, the drug in his veins was clawing at him, penetrating the warm haze and ache in his heart at the sight of Bilbo so wracked and wrecked by her pleasure, forcing him to impatience that edged on fever. With a final sigh she relaxed, her arms lowering so they no longer pillowed her heavy breasts, and she leaned towards him. Thorin strained up to meet her, desperate to kiss those lips, to feel her around him once more and be in her arms, when something rough as sackcloth rubbed his lips and he choked, starting back. 

“Hold still. Just because we’re in the woods, there’s no need to be unhygienic.” Bilbo fussed, rubbing over Thorin’s mouth and beard with the corner of the blanket he had kicked off. She grimaced, dabbing the corner in the bucket of water nearby, and then his face. “I never liked my own taste all that much, and I would very much like to kiss you through the rest of this.”

Thorin stared, the cold water its own shock back to reality. Bilbo’s color was high, her eyes shining, and she gave him a self-deprecating half-smile as she set the blanket aside. “There we are,” she said, and leaned in to kiss him. 

He moaned into her mouth at the contact, those warm lips nipping and sucking at his, sending a fresh wave of heat through his veins. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and he tilted his face against her so their noses were side by side, his sharper one pressed to her cheek. Dwarves were meant to endure, but for how long when her taste was on his tongue, her body flush against his and his blood so hot it scorched away all thought and self? He thought he would ignite in every place where their skin touched, and low rumbling groans echoed in his chest. Her belly was soft as it pressed against him, her thighs warm and gloriously round as they clenched around his waist, and everything about her was lush and soft and _perfect,_ a beauty so unlike all that he had known in so many harsh years. The temptation to ask her to unbind his hands was its own torture, but the very fact the urge grew within him made him all the more certain he must force it down. No knowing what he might do to her once free, and what was more, already twice the world had proved a safer place in Mistress Baggins’ capable hands. Three times now, he thought as coherence faded and her hands traced down his chest, caressing the dark hair that shadowed it, rubbing her palm over his nipple. 

“I think it’s about your turn, hmm? Unless you have further objections?” Bilbo said, coyly nipping at Thorin’s lower lip and he caught her back before she pulled away, holding her there with a deepening kiss. He was rubbing against her backside, hips undulating with a sort of tidal desperation that pushed and pulled inside him, wiping his thoughts between one breath and the next, and when they returned they were only the words he hissed against her lips. 

" _Please_." His back arched as another surge threatened to tear him apart, impatient now that his mouth was no longer on her, reaching into his brain and.... “It’s trying to drive me mad." His breath hitched as cold fear trickled into his belly, at that word which he rarely dared speak, though others were willing enough to do for him. About him. Thorin grimaced then sighed at a cool hand on his cheek, drawing him back, a chaste kiss to his lips, breath fluttering. 

"It won't," Bilbo said fiercely. Angry, but not at him. "It won't, Thorin. I won't let it."

Thorin stared, then nodded, words choked off as a wave of...something, more potent than even the rush of lust caused by the drug, rolled through him at the sight. A delirium all of its own, that seemed to originate in that secret, shameful part of him, though it did not feel shameful around her, that had pulsed at her words after the Goblin Tunnels. When his last sight before darkness consumed was of a small form outlined by fire, standing between him and the Pale Orc with a glowing sword in hand. Love, or lust, or something else entirely, the feeling of being... protected, cherished. 

Perhaps he was only tired—of the drug, of all the disasters that had befallen them, of the need to be in constant control of himself and others. Perhaps the only appeal was the rest, perhaps it was greater than that, for he shuddered bone-deep, with need and relief that perhaps it would be all right because she took that control now, pushing him down with the flat of her hand on his chest. The breath rushed out of him at that look and he arched against her hand. " _Yes, this, please._ Please touch me..."

That fierceness flickered to uncertainty in her eyes, then returned full force. Bilbo shifted to do just that and the last of Thorin's coherence fled. Braced, she rose to her knees, his breath hissing out as she wrapped her fingers around the tight, swollen length of his cock, her fingers cool against the heated flesh, drawing from him a creaking whimper. She fitted the tip to the dampness of her sex and slid down, lowering to the hilt, into that perfect wet heat, with a breathy sigh and a wince, the inner muscles slick and taking him in, tightening around him. 

Thorin's world went white. He could have gasped, even shouted, but the burn of the drug and his own desire were in searing harmony and strangled the sound from him so he could only choke and gasp and buck upward without any control, without the hope of it. When he could breathe again it was a whimpering sob, his wrists sending a pang of sensation that had moved beyond pain as he tugged at his bonds, wanting to seize her, to drive her on and start the rhythm. 

"I've got you, dear," Bilbo whispered, "I've got you." Her lips sealed against his, the only thing that kept his shout from echoing across the camp as she tightened around him so the muscles squeezed and caressed his length. Thorin thought he would die, that his heart would stop as she gave the first slow roll of her hips, shifting over him, coming off an inch before sliding down again, repeating the motion in an inexorable circle as she rode him with muscles strengthened by riding pony-back. 

_Ah_ , was the only word he could form, again and again panting against her as heat and desire pulsed over his skin. He was sweat-slicked, they both were, her hands rising to clutch at his shoulders and drive down against him, her breasts against his chest. Her lips were sweet as honey and if she moved just a _little_ closer he could taste more of her and the thought consumed him. He must have whined the plea into her mouth, though whether they were words could not be said, but she gave a breathy laugh in response and shifted. The motion of her hips stilled long enough for her to lean forward, plump breasts proffered to his mouth, the skin creamy soft with small, rosebud pink nipples peaked at the tip of that lush expanse. 

Words abandoned Thorin. He was reduced to the groan of a beast as he strained upward and took the first nipple in his mouth, laving it with his tongue, licking and sucking and drawing a breathy gasp from Bilbo that made his cock twitch and ache deep inside her. He buried his face against them, turning his head to tend each in turn while Bilbo whispered a gasp above him, the motion of her hips stilled but it hardly mattered. She clenched around him with every cry, grinding her clit against his pelvis and her breathing gone ragged as he tasted her, his hips moving on their own accord; and with his wrists bound above his head there was no steadying her, so each mindless thrust brought her closer then further away. A sharper spasm around him as he sucked and pulled at the nipple, adding the brush of teeth that draws a higher gasp that wiped away any threat of coherence, if sanity at all was even a possibility when Bilbo began to shiver harder, pant faster, grind frantically against him as his lips and beard scraped over her tits and his hips rocked up against her, frantically driving towards his peak. 

Then those perfect breasts were gone and he would have moaned at the loss, if not for her lips crashing into his as Bilbo gave a full-body shudder and released a cry into his mouth, her muscles tightening in her belly, around him as her orgasm crested and her movements became desperate, riding wave after wave. She pulsed around him and it was the last straw, knowing she was coming, that she was unraveling as surely as him and the tightening of his loins gripped his body. He would have grabbed at her, clutching and clawing to hold her close as their shudders tore through them but he could only clutch at the ropes, digging into them with his nails as she rode it out, whispered cries growing fainter and she held him through it, until both fell to stillness punctuated only by their heavy breathing and the occasional pulse of aftershock.

Thorin's eyes fluttered open-- he hadn't known he had closed them, only thought somehow his vision had darkened and hadn't been surprised at it-- at the press of lips to his face as Bilbo kissed his cheeks, his forehead twice, finishing at his lips, sucking the breath from his lungs and he could feel her grinning against him. 

"Oh, love," Bilbo sighed happily lying down on top of him, her curls tickling his throat. "That was _wonderful_. We will most certainly be doing that again." He could not answer her, but only sighed. Relief washed through him as he pressed his face against the top of her head in the embrace he could not grant. Relief that it had been so easy, that the worst was now behind them and he could now set himself to the task of earning her forgiveness for this necessity.

Then, a _pulse._

Thorin went still, swallowed, fumbling for words that took their time assembling into coherent order. Awareness crept over him, the return of some semblance of rationality, along with a realization that made the remaining heat in his blood go cold, even as an ache gathered lower. _No_. Wild eyes found Bilbo's. "Bilbo..."

Bilbo shifted her head up where she had rested it against his shoulder to look at him questioningly.

"It is still there," Thorin whispered, and thought if not the residual burn of their lovemaking, and the drug in his veins, his face might have gone pale with dread.

"You're having me on," Bilbo exclaimed, her hands reaching up to rub the sweat from her forehead, the frizzed curls from her face.

"I would nev- _ah_ \- n-never joke," Thorin panted, willing her to hear his sincerity, that he would never stoop to such tactics to have more against her desires.But he was still inside her, still hard though he knew he must have come, and when she shifted in surprise his eyelids fluttered at the pulse that echoed through him.

"No," Bilbo said after a moment with a sigh. "No, you wouldn't, would you? Or about anything for that matter." She frowned. "Well, this is utterly absurd. What are we to do now?"

Thorin remained silent, lips stubbornly sealed. He knew what he should ask: that they go again. But perhaps it was unnecessary, perhaps once was enough to beat back the worst of the drug and it would not be three days but a few hours more to dissipate, and no need to drag her into this a second time. Yet even as he thought it, Thorin felt that niggling edge, the rise of heat within his loins like a tide and he closed his eyes against it, brow furrowing to hide the want that must have been emblazoned over his face. 

"I will manage," he mumbled, even if every instinct screamed at him to beg for more. But no, it wasn't instinct, it was the drug, altering his thoughts, his will, threatening to dishonor him or force him to dishonor himself and he would not have that, not for her.

"Óin said three hours even with, uh... 'help,'" Bilbo said, stuttering over the last word. Thorin could not help it, even through the haze his lips twitched at the thought of Bilbo hesitating over the mere words after what they had just done.She huffed, perhaps at the sight of it. "Well it sounds a bit tiring, but hardly unlike anything I haven't done before. Though, that was usually spaced out over a lazy Sunday. What I wouldn't give for a proper bed! That pallet doesn't look very comfortable, not in the slightest."

"Hardly the most uncomfortable aspect of all this," Thorin said, cracking an eye open to look wryly up at her. His voice was tight as another wave drifted over his muscles, his veins, this one more powerful than the last, and the trajectory was clear. Their first time had been a stopgap at best, but at least it seemed to have cleared his thoughts for the moment, and the next wave already felt less... powerful than the last, less inevitable, but that by no means meant he was free of its grasp. 

"No, I imagine it's not." Bilbo chewed at her lip and Thorin's eyes widened and squeezed shut again just as quickly as those phantom images surged again, of her lips turned to another purpose, cheeks hollowed as she took him in her mouth. He groaned at the back of his throat despite himself. "Is it very bad?"

"Not so much as it was," Thorin said, his voice a hoarse whisper, tight with the next dizzying wave. "There is no pain, only confusion. Visions. They steal my will and my... my self."

"Honestly, that sounds worse than pain. For you, at least, I know pain isn't really what you fear, not after that foolish stunt with the Pale Orc. While this, this sounds quite a bit closer to what Lord Elrond..." she stopped, trailing off but there was no need to finish the sentence. How she had come to know him so well he could not say, and again a pulse went through him, but this one his own, aching in his heart, that she might have sought to understand him even as he had shunned and disdained her. Pain indeed would not be so fearsome as this, this echo of another illness that haunted him, that waited for him perhaps...he ruthlessly shoved that thought aside. 

Thorin nodded, and started as she kissed him again, smoothing the strands of his hair from his face, over his temple. He opened his eyes to see her nose inches from his, as she looked into his eyes. "This is good, Thorin," she said firmly. "It is less this time, which means likely it will be even less the next time, if we have to. We'll get through this."

"There's no need for you to stay," Thorin protested. "You should feel no obligation. This is not a matter of the quest."

"So is that the difference? You'll send me first over a river for the quest without so much as a by-your-leave, but heaven forbid I want to help _you_ ," Bilbo scoffed. "And you act as if this is some great hardship. My dear, if all our difficulties on this road were so fashioned, I think your volunteers would have lined up out the door, and I would have been the first one there."

At some point during her words his cheeks had begun to burn. Perhaps wanting to expire from embarrassment was its own weapon against the drug. Not the least was the image of the seven clans lined up to help him with _this_ particular humiliation, as if there hadn't been enough on this road already. 

_Pock_. Thorin looked up at a light tap against the center of his forehead and Bilbo leaned in to nuzzle against him. "Another joke. My apologies, I'll be more careful with those in the future. There's no need to think so hard on it, love, greater matters at stake and all that, hmm?" 


	3. Chapter 3

They went again, and Thorin could only be glad they had taken the time to see to Bilbo's pleasure first, because there was no strength for selflessness left in him. Whether it grew worse or better, he could not tell. He only knew that the drug lingered and would not let him go, tugging at his veins, urging his muscles to constrict and spasm, to tear at his bonds, and what was worse to allow him no true release from the ache in his loins.

Bilbo did her best, though in his state the lightest touch would have hit him like a hammer. As it was, every roll of her hips, every burning kiss pressed to his throat and his lips crashed through him, echoing through his being in waves of pure bliss that edged on pain, if only because there was no other way for a mind to process such an enormity of sensation. Sounds echoed, and without his constant effort to grind his knuckles against the tree to maintain clarity, there was nothing to stop him from losing himself in that tide.

He came again, body wracked from crown to toe, skin shivering under each touch. Where he was, or who was beyond recall but when he could bear to open his eyes he recognized Bilbo, her face framed by a haze of an unearthly light, her curls a halo in the flickering red of the distant fire that shone through the canvas of the tent. All else was darkness and the heat in his blood.

When they tried for another, the pace changed. Sometimes fast, sometimes teasing and slow, he could do nothing but whimper deep in the back of his throat as the pause between each shift around his cock became an eternity. She sat straighter, removing all hope of tasting her again and dignity forgotten he whined at the loss. He was close, so close if she would just be faster, rougher... he must have begged. Drunken, slurred pleas whispered helplessly as he thrust up against her and the fire built, and built and she increased the speed to match...

Thorin came with a sob, back arching enough to lift Bilbo as well. When they settled again they were both panting and she collapsed against him, body slick with sweat that was cool against his own fevered skin. The desire was there again, to embrace her and hold her close until her breathing calmed, but he dared not. Only made do with nuzzling his nose against her hair, whispering hoarse thanks and endearments that had long since moved beyond any coherence.

"Can you make it a little while longer before the next one?" Bilbo mumbled against his collarbone, her voice reedy enough that Thorin blinked and straightened in alarm.

"Bilbo?" Thorin said, and at her pitiful moan he shifted, nudging her up with his shoulder so she raised her head enough to blink at him sleepily. It only struck him then that the hour must be beyond late, approaching midnight if not already past, and the day had not been an easy one, spent traipsing through tangled woods. A surge of guilt made a valiant effort to tamp down any spark of lust, that on top of all that Bilbo had until then made no complaint for the rest she deserved. Handkerchiefs, apparently, were a much greater cause of fuss than dropping from exhaustion while trying to aid a foolish dwarf. "Of course. We may stop altogether. Before you arrived, I fully intended to fight this off with my own strength."

"But it's not gone yet," Bilbo said, and whether it was question or more complaint he could not say.

"It does not matter. Rest, I will manage," Thorin said, and frowned at Bilbo's snort.

"Every time you say that I am less convinced it's true," Bilbo said. "Just give me a moment and I will be right as rain."

Protests rose to Thorin’s lips when a hiss replaced it and sensation shot through his body as Bilbo dismounted and knelt shivering beside him. The sweat was cooling on her skin, which was still flushed red from exertion. She reached for the water skin left by the base of the tree where Thorin was tied, and drank from it greedily, emptying half the skin. After gulping down a breath, when she turned and offered it to him. Thorin did not think, only accepted feeling that curious melting haze as he looked up at Bilbo, drinking at her behest until the skin was dry. She set it aside after, brushing her hand over his forehead to remove a strand that had tugged free of his braids.

"Are you alright?" Thorin said tentatively, the quiet or perhaps the lingering guilt made it seem that something must be said in the face of her silence and the way she looked at him, both soft and somehow indignant.

Bilbo snorted. "An odd question when you're the one we're trying to keep alive," she said. But Thorin held her gaze, studying her for sign of falsehood and something about it must have unnerved her because she looked down with a rueful sigh and shrugged. "It chafes a bit, and I'm tired. Not so much as I might have been before tramping about on this journey, but still," she trailed off, then shrugged again, looking up. "I intend to see this through to the end, so it hardly matters."

"As leader of the Company, I could order you to stop," Thorin reminded her.

"Or you could simply ask," Bilbo responded tartly. "As I said, I'm not here to force you. I just hate..."

"What?" Thorin said as she trailed off. There was a stirring in his loins and though he had not ever softened since the pollen first struck, the need to do something about it came in waves. Their coupling may banish the need temporarily, and far as he could tell it grew less with every climax. But now it returned as if in one last valiant attempt to lay him low. Thorin clenched his teeth, jaw working as he closed his eyes and shook his head, breathing harshly through his nose. When it passed, or at least subsided, he opened his eyes again, focusing on Bilbo. "What do you hate, burglar?"

Her hesitation sent a thrill of fear through him. Did she hate their lovemaking, if it could even be called that? She claimed experience, but that did not mean preference, even with her apparent acceptance at their first time. Who knew how this hobbit's mind worked, what had drawn her to his side at all? Perhaps there was some element of distaste for her, though what, or how, or how he could prevent it...

Bilbo sighed. "I hate seeing you hurt. Foolish, I know, with all we've been through. With all you've been through. You are a warrior, after all, one who has fought who knows how many hundreds of battles before I even met you." She rubbed her hands over her face in what looked like an effort to wake herself and buy a moment to think. "I suppose there's just a difference between watching you chop your enemies to ribbons, and quite another to see something get you back. I think I went a bit mad the last time, after the Goblin Tunnels when that orc was threatening to spit you. Somehow, this feels very much the same." She lowered her hands and looked back at him, her lined, expressive features twisted in a wry half-smile. "That's all."

Thorin stared. A thousand questions whirled through his head, not the least of which was why a hobbit from the Shire would care for his well being. He had gone a little mad too when she had leapt in front of him, but by then the world had narrowed to burning pines, and a glowing sword clutched in the hands of a figure  that stood between him and darkness. It had left him with fear and fury that haunted the darkness of unconscious with phantom images of her death which turned to angry words and piercing relief when he saw her after, miraculously still alive on the Carrock.

“I mean, it’s hardly here nor there,” Bilbo hazarded. She gave him a curious look, and only then did Thorin realize he had been staring. “So, shall we…?”

“Untie me,” Thorin said. The words were solid, spoken without hesitation for all that they emerged before he could stop them.

Bilbo blinked. “What?”

“ _Untie me_ ,” Thorin repeated. Bilbo blinked again, and gave a pointed look to his still visibly aching erection.

“Are you sure?” Bilbo said with obvious uncertainty. “I don’t mind, but you were the one who brought up the issue with… with the ropes.”

Thorin’s eyes fluttered shut and he gritted his teeth against another wave, his voice hoarse when he spoke again, “Yes, you confounded hobbit. Would you just—-” He inhaled sharply, a pulse cutting off his breath and with it what little pride he’d managed to salvage. “You’ve done enough.”

She deflated, shoulders falling, the curiosity  and thoughtfulness that had so animated her fading with it. Even her hair seemed to go limp, the sweaty curls hanging loose around her face and pointed ears. “Right. Of course, just a moment.”

Her clever fingers worked at the bonds, which had drawn tight from his twisting and flailing. He did not realize they were cutting into his wrists until they loosened and relief of an entirely different sort flooded Thorin’s body. His hands were stiff and bloodless, and Bilbo _tsk_ ed to see the red welts standing out against the pale flesh of his wrist. His hands fell to his sides, fingers working to return the feeling, arms already tingling with the rush of blood back to his extremities, an annoyance that fell to the back of his mind as he saw Bilbo shift, collecting her waistcoat from the ground and absently smoothing the wrinkles. She did not look at him and her curls hung around her face, hiding her expression.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said, reaching out to her, his fingers stopping just short of her shoulder. She pulled away.

“I’m sorry, it seems I’ve been terribly thoughtless. Óin even said that it was the contact that mattered, it’ll probably be out of your system soon enough without further help,” she said without turning to face him. “Dawn is still many hours off, as far as can be told in this dratted forest, I should try to get some rest. I’ll just...leave you to it.”

“Bilbo, please,” Thorin repeated, a distant part of him recognizing that it was the first time he’d begged anything of her that was not a product of the drug. Simply gentle words, his fingers tracing her curls back over her ears so he could see her face, so he could lean in and kiss her under his own power.

Gentle, even as the drug clawed at his veins and demanded ravishment, but she was sighing against him, and he was pulling her close as he had not been able to before. Just to hold her smaller form close, and even though he ached it was a far lesser pain than the one that bloomed in his chest.

“Will you stay?” Thorin said, at a loss for more, feeling as if he asked more than he knew. That she answered more than either of them understood yet when Bilbo nodded. When he guided her back to lie back on the relative softness of the pallet.

Her exhaustion was clear, her lashes fluttering and she stretched once, spine popping with a satisfied moan before she lay still, looking up at him. For a moment he could only look back, the drug still hot in his veins but for the moment he was the stronger. He was giving it what it wanted, was he not? Perhaps for the first time since Erebor fell, Thorin Oakenshield’s will was entirely in alignment with something Elvish.

He needed no encouragement to burn with desire as his eyes swept Bilbo’s form, taking in for the first time without so thick a haze the generous curve of her thighs with the damp curls of her sex peaking between them, the lovely roundness of her belly and breasts that made Thorin dig his teeth into his lip for the dash of pain necessary to keep himself in check another moment longer.

“Do you like what you see?” Bilbo joked, following his gaze.

“Yes,” Thorin said simply, because it was the truth, and because there was no other answer. Just to prove it, he ran a hand up her side from her hip, tracing up her arm and collarbone to come to rest on her cheek. Bilbo sighed and met him with a sleepy, breathless kiss to his palm. She squirmed slightly against the bedroll and he needed no further encouragement to press closer, his hair falling around them, shadowing them.

He held himself above her with one arm as he brushed his hair to the side and kissed his way down her throat, back down the path his hand had traveled over her breast, tongue flicking at the nipple so that she sighed and shifted in the most gratifying way. He ducked lower, pressing open mouthed kisses to her belly down until he nudged her thighs apart. His hand he kept higher, tracing her flank, teasing over her chest until he earned the gasped he had been hoping for at her breast, where he began to massage and pinch as he pressed his mouth reverently to her, bracing himself with his other arm as he nuzzled close.

He had barely been able to restrain himself before, but this time the fire was banked enough for gentleness, so as to not irritate her already sensitive skin. Thorin worked slowly, patiently, guided by Bilbo’s quiet moans, the increase in her breathing as he lapped at her folds, drawing out little shivers, keep half a mind on his hand that teased at her breasts. He was hard, so hard that pre-come beaded and dripped from the damp head of his cock, but he was also resolute. Once he had been angry at the drug for what it had stolen from him: his grand designs and plans that their first coupling be on silk sheets in the heavy-canopied bed of the king’s quarters. That he decorate her first in jewels, himself in a crown, if only to feel worthy of this remarkable creature who had pledged herself to his cause.

That anger had burnt itself out, and what it left behind was perhaps not gratitude, but acceptance. Without the drug he might not have learned until it was too late how he had troubled and confused Bilbo. They may have had silk sheets, but there may have been nothing at all. He might have missed his chance altogether, the two of them only parting in friendship. A rough pallet in a damned forest, but if he could draw these sounds from her, these soft whimpering cries of pleasure and need, then there was little room left for anything but bliss.

His work was slow, and thorough. He let the pleasure build with gentle tastes and touches and only when her hips bucked against him, demanding more, did he increase the pace. Whispered nonsense fell from her lips as his free hand massaged and groped at her breasts, as the motions of his tongue grew faster, firmer. She was nudging against him now, fingers stroking his hair to the rhythm of his ministrations, until all at once one hand flew to her mouth, muffling her cries. When she came, he tasted it, urged her on, his motions designed to draw out every drop of her pleasure until she shivered, hard, a final time and lay still, panting.

He could not bear it, not another moment longer, and he wiped his mouth against the back of his arm as the one concession he could manage before he was above her, hands closed around her hips. She blinked dazedly, saw the question in his eyes and nodded. She was exhausted, wrecked but Bilbo still moaned as he draw her legs up to wrap them around his waist when he finally, finally buried himself within her. Hot and slick and perfect, Thorin groaned and hunched over as lust pounded through him like a punch in the gut. There was no thought remaining, only every image that had plagued him while she rode him on top. He could not keep his hands from her, running them along her chest, tracing her cheek then the shell of her ear,  before all gentler thought abandoned him entirely and his hands came to rest on her hips.

He moved, and Bilbo moaned in pleasure as he thrust into her. Thorin had to close his eyes and simply _breathe_ for a moment before setting a pace. Easier to be slow when her pleasure came first, nearly impossible when his own zinged up his spine and tightened in his gut, stealing over him with every stroke along his length in a dizzying haze. His skin was flushed, it was for both of them, and her breasts bounced and shook to make him go mad on his own as he made love to her, unable to wrench his eyes away, watching her lips part and her eyes close. Her hand moved, grabbing to his arm, not stopping him but only clinging, stroking tiny encouraging circles into his forearm as the lust became choking, the pleasure whiting out his sense.

She tightened around him, moaning closed-mouthed at the back of her throat as she shuddered and shivered around him and it was too much, far too much to survive. Hot and hard, harder than he had ever been or so it felt, he did not know and the world was a haze, and his orgasm burned through his veins. He could not see or breathe or cry out but only bend forward, face buried against the crook of her neck as he held onto her, muffling his cries against her skin as his body shivered through the highest peak.

Only in the stillness that followed, with the sweat cooling on their skins and their breathing still only slowing but not yet normal did he realize: the fires were gone. The drug had run its course.

Thorin pushed himself up from where he lay against Bilbo’s panting form, gently removing himself, and he saw— with more relief than he’d ever had before and hoped ever would after— that he was softening. With a groan he sat back, rubbing his hands over his face. His thoughts were clear, a blessing too often taken for granted. He breathed the night air, saw through the canvas of the tent that the campfire was down to the coals. Snores rattled from the other end of the camp.

Only then did the aches of his body catch up to him, no longer masked by the lust and adrenaline inflicted by the pollen. His wrists were the greatest source of pain, the skin scraped raw even with the padding cloths, but it was more than that. He ached to the bone from his writhing, and whatever energy he’d had at the beginning of the night was thoroughly spent. Thorin could barely rouse the will to lift his hands to unbind his tattered braids, setting the beads carefully aside, when he heard Bilbo’s sleepy mumble.

She lay still on her back, arm cast over her eyes, her chest rising and falling and the skin losing the red flush of their lovemaking. At the sound of his shifting, she raised her arm to push back her now-frizzy curls.

“All better?” Bilbo murmured.

“Yes,” Thorin said quietly, and only when he noted a peculiar ache in his face did he realize he was smiling foolishly down at her, and that she was answering it with a grin of her own.

Thorin gave a startled laugh, and after a moment Bilbo joined in until they were both giggling under their breath like children, naked as the day they were born in the middle of a camp that had--with any luck--long since gone to sleep.

“Thorin, that was quite nice, but next time shall we aim for a light stroll rather than an endurance run?” Bilbo said. “Oh, and a proper bed would be lovely.”

Still grinning, Thorin leaned down and kissed her cheek, one blessedly free of any deeper lust or phantasm. “Whatever you wish. My hope was to treat you the first time on silk sheets in the royal quarter, but I see that is not to be.”

“Mmm, sounds lovely. Though I do hope we’ll have another chance before then?”

Thorin chuckled under his breath, “Whenever we have the chance.”

Bilbo smiled and nuzzled against his nose with her cheek, before releasing an irritated sigh. “I should probably get us washed up before bed.”

“Let me. You rest,” Thorin said, kissing her again. Fortunately Balin had the presence of mind to leave a spare change of clothes, basic but serviceable in the corner of the tent before Thorin had been bound. Thorin donned them quickly, then ducked out barefoot into the night. His pack waited in a pile with the others, and he saw that the Company were all laid out to sleep in their bedrolls by the fire. All of them, at least, except for…

“Evenin’,” Óin said, raising his pipe to Thorin in greeting. “I trust it went well.”

Thorin stopped in his tracks, turning startled to face the older dwarf, and relaxed when he saw Óin's expression was placid, if not a trifle smug. "Perhaps as well as you intended?" Thorin answered dryly, and many elements of the evening came together in his mind at once with a pattern that was altogether too convenient to be chance alone.

Oin snorted. "Put me in the ground before I claim any power o'er Mistress Baggins. I just told her the truth. The wizard isn't the only one who can see what's plain before his face."

"Even so, I would that she had not become involved at all." Thorin frowned as he found his pack and crouched to rummage through it.

"Can't always have what we want, lad, but I trust ye know that better than most," Óin said, taking a long drag of his pipe and giving a slow exhale into the night. "Besides, it would have been a bloody stupid way to die."

Thorin grunted in acknowledgement as he pulled the soap from his pack, along with one of the extra water skins, and a fresh blanket. As an afterthought, he also took out a spare shirt for Bilbo to sleep in. "You sound quite certain that the drug would have succeeded."

"Oh aye, sure as daylight," Óin nodded. "A teaspoon o' that dust is a lethal dose, my lad, there isn't a creature alive that could have survived as much as ye took in without treatment. If the two of ye hadn't come to yer senses by sunrise, I would have marched in there myself, and ye would have thanked me for it."

Despite himself, Thorin blanched. "You might have said as much."

Óin shrugged. "Didn't want Mistress Baggins to feel pressured, ye see, especially if I had misjudged the two o' you. Don't go frettin' yerself, Thorin, I wouldn't o' let you die, though mayhap the cure would o' been a sight less comely."

There was nothing to be said to that, except to resolutely push aside any accompanying mental images of what such measures would have entailed. He stood, items in hand and with a nod of goodnight to Óin, turned back to the tent.

"Oh, Thorin," Óin said, and he turned back, raising an eyebrow in question. "The two of you feel free to get a mite o' extra sleep. Me and the lads can break camp and see to yer armor. I think the two of ye could use the rest."

"Thank you, Óin," Thorin said, growing far more interested in returning to said rest than arguing with his cousin. Most days he would chafe at such coddling, but even he could admit when he was beaten, or very nearly so.

"And another thing..."

Thorin's shoulders fell and he shook his head as he turned back once more. "Yes, Óin?"

"You let Mistress Baggins know that I sent the lads early to bed and took the watch. Quite hung up on matters o' dignity, our lass, wouldn't want her fussin' over bein' overheard. With these ears, the two of ye had plenty of privacy."

Thorin's own ears were making a sterling effort to catch fire at that point. He had quite forgotten all concerns of possible noise by the time the pollen had him in its throes. "Thank you, I... that is, she will appreciate the thought. Goodnight."

"All I expect in return is a good seat at the wedding. With these dratted ears I wouldn't want to miss the vows," Óin called after him.

Thorin's hand hovered at the flap, and shook his head ruefully. "Of course, Óin. Goodnight," he said, and ducked inside before anymore questions could follow, but he still heard the dry chuckling that followed him in.

He found Bilbo dozing on the pallet, curled up on her side with her arm as a pillow. Her lips were parted, and the dim light was nothing to a dwarf, so he could see the pink glow that still stained her cheeks, her flyaway curls in disarray. He crouched beside her, running his fingertips over the freckled skin of her shoulder until she snuffled softly awake and raised her head, squinting at him.

"I thought you may want to wash before bed," Thorin said, proffering the washcloth and soap. Bilbo groaned under her breath, but nodded, accepting them.

Once they were both finished, he offered her the spare shirt, which she sleepily accepted. It hung to her knees, more an ill-fitting dress than a tunic, the broad opening at the neck falling over her shoulder as she curled back up again. He could not resist kissing that space as he curled up next to her on the pallet, and together they found their rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this is the chapter I got stuck on for AGES, so if you enjoyed I'd dearly love to hear what you thought!


	4. Bonus Epilogue: April Blooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for an anonymous prompt for how Thorin would react if... well, you'll see.
> 
> I didn't originally imagine this story having an epilogue of this sort, but once I wrote the scene it was too perfect not to include.

In Lake-town, Mistress Baggins’ cold took a turn for the worst. She had been sick on Bard’s barge as well, but that she had chalked up to seasickness. But whether by some combination of the cold, the stress of their journey, or perhaps the ever-present smell of fish, Thorin found her often as not in the morning hunched over in the privy, looking at once pitiful and murderous. 

“Perhaps you should stay behind when we travel to the Mountain?” Thorin had murmured, and it was certainly not out of fear that she would stab him if he raised his voice. He spoke reluctantly, it would be a blow to their cause of taking back Erebor to lose the very burglar Gandalf had assigned them to infiltrate it, but they also could not risk losing the light if Mistress Baggins was too infirm to keep up. 

Bilbo paused in her retching and, though her features were still quite green, she stood. She took a tattered handkerchief from somewhere in the oversized coat lent to them by Bard to dab at the corner of her mouth before she turned to face Thorin. Her features were pale and waxy, sweat prickling at her hairline where her curls frizzed out in all directions, but her jaw tightened as she faced him. Then she looked down, smoothing the front of her coat, her tone all business as she said, “Nonsense, it’s only a chill. It will be long past by the time we get there.”

Thorin nodded.

“And don’t you try to convince me otherwise, just because of a little tumble in Mirkwood, doesn’t mean you’re suddenly my keeper!” Bilbo said, placing her hands on her hips. There was a flush on her cheeks now, on both of theirs to be honest, though his was probably better hidden by the beard. Any reminder of that night of indignity in the forest--when a cursed Elvish weed had nearly killed Thorin and only certain… help from Mistress Baggins had seen him through the night--tended to do that.

“I would not,” Thorin interrupted.

Bilbo’s eyes narrowed as she stared at him a long moment, then she sighed. “No, you wouldn’t, would you? And that’s half the problem.”

“Meaning?” Thorin said. 

Bilbo wiped a hand over her forehead, and gave him a wry look. “Sometimes I’m not sure whether to be flattered or put off that you’re not the protective sort.”

Thorin smiled sadly. “If I am not, Mistress Baggins, it is only out of deepest respect for your ability.” She gave a laugh then, though it was not a joke, and some of the sickness left her face as she did so. She took his hand and squeezed it.

“I know, my dear. I know.” 

* * *

They reached the Mountain in time, and Bilbo’s sickness did indeed fade, but when precisely Thorin could not say. 

He was too lost in his own.  

* * *

It was weeks before Thorin regained consciousness after the battle.

His vision faded in and out, catching glimpses of Mistress Baggins pressing a cold cloth to his forehead, before wracking pain sent him spiraling back down into unconsciousness. He tasted blood, and the medicinal reek of ointments, but for now it seemed he had not yet reached the Halls of his Fathers, not this time. 

When Thorin came to, Bilbo was dozing at his side, her hand resting on her stomach. An empty bowl of what might have been soup sat beside her, and a folded book. He did not wish to wake her, but at his stirring she started awake, and for a moment they only stared at each other.

“You look well, Mistress Baggins,” Thorin said quietly.

Bilbo gasped, a sound like a cross between a cough and a cry, quickly muffled by her hand, and then her arms were around him. Spasms of pain roiled through the wound in his shoulder, his vision dotting at the edges, but how could one care under such circumstances? It was hard to tell if Bilbo was laughing or sobbing from the muffled hiccoughs against the crook of his neck. Thorin pressed a broad hand to her curls, and had only stroked them once when she started, and jerked away. 

“Oh goodness, your wounds! What was I thinking?” Bilbo exclaimed, and set about fussing, checking his bandages with more skill than he recalled her having on the road, knowing where each near-fatal wound could be found on his body. After checking his shoulder, his forehead, and foot, she settled back, fanning at her face, and glancing up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. He waited while she composed herself, but could not keep the faint smile back entirely, despite the ache that went down to his bones, and the exhaustion already creeping back. “ _Hrmm_ , excuse me,” Bilbo said. “I don’t know what came over me. Nerves, I suppose. Are you… how do you feel?” 

“Like I have been stabbed,” Thorin said, and settled back into the pillows, closing his eyes. “Repeatedly.”

“You know I could scold you for running off to fight alone like that,” Bilbo said. “But I believe Azog’s sword arm made that point eloquently enough.”

“I do not imagine I will be leaping once more into battle any time soon,” Thorin murmured. Or anywhere, for that matter, he was already near dozing. That was, unless… “We won the day?”

“Yes, Thorin. When the Eagles came,” Bilbo said, and Thorin nodded, curling back into the pillows. “Also, there is something else you should know…”

But Thorin was already asleep. 

* * *

 

He awoke the next morning to the clatter of silverware, and a tray with more food than he had seen since the Master’s feast piled high. Bread, fruit, he noted with some disappointment there was no meat, but there was hot tea and Bilbo had set the tray down on the side table beside his bed and was already munching on a scone.

“Is this to recover my strength?” Thorin said dryly. Bilbo raised an eyebrow and took another pointed bite. 

“Who said it’s for you?” Bilbo said, and swallowed, reaching for a second one. She held the two, one in each hand, looking quite prepared to make short work of both. Thorin watched her glance at him, then with a faint grin hand him the second one. 

“Thank you,” Thorin said as he accepted, keeping her gaze, and was graced with one of Mistress Baggins’ blushes.

“Must you do that?” Bilbo huffed. When he raised an eyebrow she gestured at him with her scone, a circular motion that took in his face. “That… look. That… sunny one, it’s wholly unsettling.”

“My face offends you now?” Thorin said. 

“Your face always offends me, as it has since the day you stood glowering at my door. At least the glowers I understand,” Bilbo said, but there was a sudden hitch in her voice and she looked down at her hands. “And I’m afraid such smiles may be premature.” 

Thorin sat straighter, ignoring the protest in his muscles, as what teasing light there had been in Bilbo’s expression grew shadowed. She clasped her hands in her lap over her belly, hands wrapped around the scone.

“The others,” Thorin managed after a moment, voice tight. “My nephews…?”

Bilbo waved a hand in dismissal without looking up. “Alive, confined to bedrest. The others all pulled through as well. No, I’m afraid this is a more personal matter.”

“You wish to leave,” Thorin said simply. He had told her as much, high above the world on the ice while she kept pressure on his wounds, probably the only reason he yet lived. But she had hissed at him not to speak, and he had spoken anyway, and bade her go home, go where she would be happy, and live a long life. He had been dying, what else could he do?

“It would certainly make things easier. Or perhaps more complicated, all depending,” Bilbo said, fidgeting. She smoothed a hand over her belly again, and Thorin could not help but note how much healthier Bilbo looked since his flashes of memory in Erebor. Her cheeks had filled out, her color was back and she had regained some of the weight lost on the journey, the lushness that had nearly driven him mad in Mirkwood. She looked beautiful. 

“Bilbo—” Thorin began. 

“I’m pregnant.” Bilbo paused, took a deep breath and continued in a business-like manner, “It’s yours. Obviously it’s yours, I mean where else… Anyway, I know this complicates the inheritance at the worst possible time. With only five months left though, I doubt I can make it back to Bag End in time, so we would have to make some other arrangement to keep the birth quiet. No one knows yet, except Óin and Gandalf. The wizard sussed it out on his own I’m afraid, that busybody. The scandal in the Shire will be considerable, but given that my reputation is already in tatters, I can’t imagine it could get any worse. In fact, a child may even return to me some respectability. I shan’t give it up though, I’ll have you know, which is only fair that it is my decision, as your contribution to the work at this point has been minimal, if enjoyable and now we know quite poorly planned. Not that there was much else we could do at the time given that damned flower…” She took a deep breath. “So, that was all I had to say. I will be keeping it, but I thought you should know.”

“A child?” Thorin tried. Bilbo’s lips thinned, and she nodded.

“Yes, Thorin,” she said, her body tense but her chin held high. “I would have told you my suspicions sooner, in Lake-town, but between the Mountain and the dragon… Well, maybe for a while too I really did think it was a cold, but then there was no time…”

“Since Lake-town?” The blood drained from Thorin’s face.

“Yes, well,” Bilbo said. “We did sleep together in the forest, several times in a row in fact, and one thing rather leads to another in such matters. How did you think babies were made? Do they just spring out of the ground with your people, like all those legends say?”

But Thorin could not answer to dismiss that ridiculous myth. His limbs had gone numb as if he had been mortally wounded, again. “You faced Smaug… while carrying our child? I sent you…”

The room spun, and it was suddenly hard to breathe as the realization unspooled, one image worse than the last. Battling Smaug through the halls of Erebor and urging Bilbo to join the fight. The madness, the rage in his belly when he had thought Bilbo’s acorn was the Arkenstone, and the greater rage when he discovered that Bilbo had it all along. When he had ordered… when he had seized…

“Thorin, Thorin! Breathe!” Bilbo said, patting her hand against his cheek, and his eyes refocused as he looked at her with horror.

“I would have thrown you down,” Thorin said. “With my hands, I would have…”

“You didn’t know,” Bilbo said and _that_ snapped him free of the chaos mounting in his brain.

“As if that excused it!” Thorin said. “It makes the crime worse, but it is no better as I thought it. Bilbo, Bilbo I am so—”

“If you say sorry once more, I will have to consider drastic actions of my own, Thorin Oakenshield!” Bilbo said, cutting him off. Thorin went quiet, looking up at her, his eyes no doubt wild. She looked down, sheepish at her outburst. “I’m sorry, it’s just, the last time you apologized is not… a very good memory, I confess.” She swallowed, then looked up to offer him a faint, lopsided smile. “And if we wanted to be here all day, we could begin to unwind all the many layers of blame, as there is much to go around.” She sniffed, once, and straightened. “I’m afraid my condition makes me rather prone to ridiculous outbursts of emotion. You must forgive me. Now, about the child?”

Thorin could only stare up at her. Her curls had escaped the tie she used to pull it back from her face, and though he had no right to such liberties he could not stop himself from cupping her face and brushing his thumb against her cheek. “I fear to ask what I do not deserve. I have been selfish for too long.”

Bilbo snorted. “I’d be very surprised to learn you’ve been selfish even _once_ while in your right mind.” But still she pressed her hand over his on her cheek and held it there, studying his face. “I am capable of making my own decisions, Thorin. I have been doing so since long before we met. Though, how to raise a child was not one I ever expected to make. Then again, whether or not to face a dragon wasn’t either, but do trust that I can make my own decision now. I would rather know what is on your mind, if only to avert silly misunderstanding. If you ask too much, it is well within my power to walk away. You are about as weak as a day-old kitten right now.”

Thorin released a breath, looking up at her frank, lined face. Her eyes could glint with exasperation, or humor, but right now they were simply kind. “Stay,” he said, and tentatively placed his other hand on her belly. “Please.”

Her lips remained firmly pursed, and her chin quivered only a little as she leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “If you insist,” she said, and pressed her forehead where she had placed the kiss, in the dwarvish manner. 

“ _Amrâlimê_ _,_ ” Thorin said, because it was true, and for the moment it did not feel that he was taking too much. After all, she did not speak their tongue.

“I know that one,” Bilbo said. “Kíli told me. It’s very sweet.”

Thorin sighed. 

“Are you alright with it?” Bilbo said, and pulled away. Thorin blinked at the loss, and blinked again to try to better understand the question. “The baby?”

A child, with Mistress Baggins. His child. Theirs. Almost a century after he had given up on the possibility, with the battles and the losses. Another fifty years since he had _really_ given up, when the settlement at Ered Luin was stable, and his nephews growing, and there had been no one. And Bilbo had given up too, she had told him, resigned long ago to being the spinster of Bag End. 

They were not of the same people, and she was far from home and he keeping her here. Should he have offered to go back with her? Could he? None of this was planned, and he felt he shouldn’t be alive here on the other side of the journey at all. He had never thought to survive the reclaiming of Erebor, much less build something after, something new and not simply restored from the bones of his forefathers. Something that was only his. Theirs. And it would be theirs even if they walked away from the Mountain, so long as they went together, both of them. All three of them, in the spring. In April, exactly a year after they had set out. 

His family. 

Bilbo squawked as he pulled her close, burying his face against her coat, and if not for his wounds he might have hugged her harder but already she was laughing, and batting at his shoulders, exclaiming, “Thorin, I can’t breathe! Oh, oh fine you silly old dwarf, enough of the foolish questions, then?” Her arms settled around around his shoulders and drew him close, fingers tracing through his hair as he wept silent tears into her coat, the first that were not from pain, or hurt, or heartache for as long as he could remember.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This is something of an experimental piece for me, so I'd really enjoy any thoughts or comments you may have! You can also [share this fic](https://avelera.tumblr.com/post/169185733878/avelera-death-by-flowers-19335-words) to help spread the word, or follow me on Tumblr where I'm also Avelera.
> 
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